Hurtling Towards Dawn
As pretty as the view was, there was little to be done for the fact that New Jersey in late October was less than clement. And no amount of kind of half-huddling together on the blanket they'd brought with them to Sinatra Park was going to make it any warmer. At least, without the date becoming a first time for more than just dating, anyway
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Harold didn't even know if his parents would be home. His cell phone - if the fucker even still worked - was back at the apartment along with NPH's unwittingly radio-tagged weed that was the purpose of the uniformed gentlemen at his door. He'd have to bank on some kind of good luck. Hah. Yeah.
Well, good luck or climbing the gutters to get into his old bedroom window, hoping like hell he didn't bust his ass.
Harold didn't enjoy visiting Princeton. It just wasn't his bag. Visiting his parents was usually a pretty forced affair, and if he managed to do that, he usually couldn't dodge being politely stalked by Cindy Kim, who still lived there. She'd started that shit back up recently, since her deal with Goldstein tanked. Harold was actually pretty impressed; he never figured a romance born at Hotdog Fucking Heaven and plagued by Rosenberg's constant kicked-puppy style jealousy would last as long as it did.
A number of these thoughts fired off as he chewed on his bottom lip, gripping his steering wheel to the point of aching knuckles.
Scotty, of course, was utterly unaware the history the car had. His actual thoughts on the vehicle were mainly that it had been decently maintained, and while obviously an older model, was still sound enough to get from Point A to point B without likely breaking down on the roadside. He also had no idea who Cindy Kim, Rosenberg or Goldstein were, or where Princeton was. Therefore, his ability to make conversation was very limited, though, to his credit, he tried at about the half-hour mark. "Is there anything I should ken? I mean, etiquette or somethin' o' that sort, things I should or shouldna do, meetin' yer parents?"
Scotty's voice, while a welcome breech of the silence, still cut through Harold's internal monologue with enough of a start to make him jump a little in his seat. He breathed, for a second after. "...sorry. A little-- on edge." He gestured vaguely, prying his hand from his own steering wheel.
He sighed, considering the question.
"There's... no good way to do this. Really. I guess. I can't think of-- anything you could--" His eyebrows drew together, and he tried to word it. Articulation was not his strong point, at the moment. "--you're fine. They're not-- there's no weird customs or anything you have to observe. Okay, well. They... wouldn't understand. About--"
A moment's hang on the sentence, and then he reached up slowly. Just so Scotty wouldn't jump at the motion. He drew the back of two fingers very briefly down Scotty's cheek, and then blushed, clearing his throat a little.
"--that."
"Th' datin' thing." The touch didn't make him jump; Scotty was on edge himself, starting to definitely feel the weight of the situation they were in, and a brush across his face with plenty of advanced warning didn't make him any more on edge than he already was. He nodded, thinking, then replied, "We could just... nae mention th' datin' thing?"
"I, ah, wasn't planning to. But." Harold gestured at his face. "I'm obvious. Really, really fucking obvious. Not an actor. At all. My mom can smell it a mile a-fucking-way when I've got a, uh-- crush." He huffed out a breath, something like a rueful laugh but without enough feeling. "But, yeah. Other than that? I can't think of anything you could do wrong. And even if you did, fuck that. I'd-- find somewhere else for us to hide if they're weren't going to treat you well. Nothing's worth you having to fucking tiptoe, or whatever." The last sentence was mumbled, and Harold was honestly surprised at his own words. Mostly because they felt utterly incongruous with the abject terror he felt about now. He wondered if he could live up to them. They didn't feel like bullshit, anyway.
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"Just be you, I think," Harold said with a subtle half-grin, looking over. Harold had designs on this man. Of the long-term variety. If they were stuck in fucking New Jersey, he realized his parents would have to find out eventually. Oh, and that thought did scare the ever loving fuck out of him. Though he wasn't going to go telling them now, not in the middle of asking them to hide them from the fucking cops, but he didn't want Scotty hiding from them either. Staying low.
"We'll figure out the rest. They're gonna freak out at me either way." Harold glanced over again, noticing Scotty's absent motion. Here Harold was, wrapped up in his own shit again. "You okay? I know this can't be a nap in the sand for you either."
"Aye, still breathin'." Scotty glanced over, offering the best half-smile he could manage, then looked back out at the world. "Just tryin' t' get it all straight in my head."
Though, that was getting more difficult. It was easier when his priorities were very much on the immediate needs of survival -- even going on a date -- then when his thoughts started drifting to the full realization that he really was in 2009, really was impossibly far away from any kind of a life he'd even barely understood. Not that he had denied that fact. It was just starting to properly sink in, how precarious this was.
Still, he only repeated, "Still breathin'," a little softer.
Harold knew the feeling.
"I guess-- how can I help? Get it straight, or whatever?" He had to laugh a little at that turn of phrase, shaking his head. Considering. "Or gay. Whatever."
"Nothin' t' do for it." Scotty shook his head, though Harold bringing up that whole thing again gave him a defensive little pang. He didn't buy into that bullshit; the whole idea of labeling people based on who they dated, loved, wanted. Cultural primer and explanations or no. He chafed against it, though silently. "Keep survivin', that's about it."
Well, Harold had been going for a bit of a laugh with that. At some point between white-knuckling the steering wheel and 'still breathin'' he'd picked up the urge breathe out a little of the tension. Laugh fail. No, Harold wasn't doing well, and he fell silent for a little while, thinking.
What must it be like, finding yourself in another time and place, disoriented, alone, having to place a certain amount of hope in people you don't know and only really having one person in the universe who knows who you are?
...oh. Right.
"It'll be fine." There was a certain amount of resolve in Harold's declaration, and he nodded smartly. Taking in a breath, letting it out slowly. He glanced over. "...you knew that already. With the-- 'still breathing'. Sorry. But. We'll be okay. More than breathing." I want you more than breathing.
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